


Looking Back at a Mirror

by ReditusIgnotum (Uncommonbisisst)



Category: Queen (Band), We Will Rock You - Elton/May/Taylor
Genre: F/M, Gen, Light Angst, Post-Canon, Reincarnation
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-12-07
Updated: 2018-12-09
Packaged: 2019-09-13 07:11:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,713
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16887975
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Uncommonbisisst/pseuds/ReditusIgnotum
Summary: “Everyone else is going back to Pop's for a celebratory drink. You should come.”“Nah,” She blew a loose purple strand from her face and rested her back against Wembley's main stone wall, “I already know what's gonna happen. Macca gets a drink, insults somebody, gets into a fight, and now we gotta spend the entire early morning cleaning up the bar instead of going home.”Galileo snorts. “C'mon, I could ask him to tone it down a little.”“Appreciated, but I still don't wanna.”“This isn't about bar fights, isn't it?”She craned her neck to peer down at him. Concern clouds his eyes now. She sighs and closes her eyes. “Do you ever get memories from, you know, back then?”“Uh, all the time-”“I'm not talking 'bout MTV's Top 10 Greatest Music Videos of All Time in your head. I'm talking the guy you used to be. When we were- When we were Queen.”





	1. Chapter 1

The past is all in the past. That's probably why they called it that. It's what Scaramouche told herself when she ripped that white cloth wrapped around her head in the hospital and threw it away, along with her old name, her family, the Gaga girls sneering- everything.

 

When she first strummed that red guitar- the Red Special, as Pop proclaimed- something tugged at the back of her mind. As if the last piece of an invisible mind puzzle slid into place.

 

Memories. Pain, joy, guilt- all those lovely things neatly kicked into her chest at full speed as if someone gave her an anvil for Christmas complete with a fancy ribbon. She could remember them if she tried. And, well, she has. The roaring of phantom crowds, the thunderous beats of ghost drums, and the sudden instinct guiding her fingers smoothly along the strings. They made her feel at home and at peace. They calmed her quick-pulsed heart with their own fast-paced beats.

 

But now, staring at the guitar in her hands, a sense of emptiness filled her. The one who played this guitar was at the other edge of the ravine, someone else. His memories may be with her, but they were two separate people who happened to have the same soul.

 

And yet… Why does she still long for a piece of the old days?

 

“Knew I'd find you here.” A familiar voice appeared a few feet below from her.

 

She looked down and faced him with a tired smile. “Why, hello there, Gazza.”

 

Galileo wore yet another one of his (allegedly) five hundred pairs of dark leather jackets. He returned her grin with more joy than hers. 

 

“Everyone else is going back to Pop's for a celebratory drink. You should come.”

 

“Nah,” She blew a loose purple strand from her face and rested her back against Wembley's main stone wall, “I already know what's gonna happen. Macca gets a drink, insults somebody, gets into a fight, and now we gotta spend the entire early morning cleaning up the bar instead of going home.”

 

Galileo snorts. “C'mon, I could ask him to tone it down a little.”

 

“Appreciated, but I still don't wanna.” 

 

“This isn't about bar fights, isn't it?”

 

She craned her neck to peer down at him. Concern clouds his eyes now. She sighs and closes her eyes. “Do you ever get memories from, you know, back then?”

 

“Uh, all the time-”

 

“I'm not talking 'bout MTV's Top 10 Greatest Music Videos of All Time in your head. I'm talking the guy you used to be. When we were- When we were Queen.”

 

“Oh.” He purses his lips. “Oh yeah. Well, yeah, it's all a lot clearer now after we kicked Killer Queen out. All those concerts, those sessions in the studios. And…” His gaze never leaves hers, but it turns distant. 

 

“Pain.” She finishes it for him without a hint of humor.

 

“Yeah, yeah. It was cool. Every time I sing now, it takes me back.” He leans against the wall and smiles rather mischievously. “What about you, oh Hairy One?”

 

She buries her face in her palms and groans. He's been teasing her with that ever since she rightfully snatched the guitar from his hands and played a riff. 

 

“Listen,” She rolls off of the stone and drops down to the grass. “lately, I've been wondering. You ever wanna know where the rest of our old gang went?”

 

His face scrunches up in thought (God, she wants to squeeze his cheek right now) and replies, “Yeah. But how do we do that?”

 

A smile graces Scaramouche's face as a thought crosses her mind. “How about we start with that party?”

\---

She immediately regretted her decision the moment she stepped into Pop's bar. An airborne shard of glass narrowly missed her head and embedded itself into the wooden wall above the doorway.

 

“What the hell, Underwood?” She glared at the culprit, already knowing who it was even if she hadn't seen the entire room yet.

 

“Sorry,” Underwood nearly shrugged himself off of his rickety stool. “Thought there was a dartboard ‘'bove ya head.”

 

Galileo playfully punched her in the shoulder. “Hey, you wanted to go.”

 

It was the one year anniversary of Killer Queen's defeat and the restoration of rock back to Earth- Planet Mall's former name now rightfully returned. Pop's bar rose from an abandoned food court. Everyone helped twist the neon signs until the old man's name shone brightly for any wandering soul to see.

 

They approached him and took an empty pair of stools. Pop turned around with open arms, “Ah, welcome, kids! What do you guys want? It's all on me.”

 

“I'll just have a glass of soda.” Galileo shrugs.

 

“Same for me.”

 

Pop hums in response and returns in a moment with two glasses filled with the fizzling dark liquid. As Galileo takes the first sip, Scaramouche inquires, “So, Pop, you know how Gazza and I- well, our souls used to be half of those Queen blokes, right?”

 

“Yeah! My readings back at the library stated that you two are the only key to completing the prophecy.”

 

“Uh-huh. Do you happen to know how we can find the other guys?”

 

Pop pauses. He drums his fingers against the bar table. “We could check the library. But, from what I can recall now, I know the other two- your drummer and your bassist, helped you seal your instruments in Wembley. They were arrested and, um, executed with you.”

 

“I know that.” She grits her teeth at the simple brush of the memory. “But can we find out where their souls ended up? Maybe in some prophecy like me and Gazza?”

 

Pop smiles, “I suppose it's time to take a trip down memory lane. Give me a minute.” 

 

He turns to the Bohemians gathered in the center of the bar and shouts. “Alright, folks! Bar's closed just for today! Hurry along now.”

 

A chorus of groans and protests fill the air as they slump out of the doorway in defeat, one by one.

 

“Unfortunately, the library is just a walking distance from here, so we can't remember the good times and ride my Harley. Eh, so much for memory lane.”

 

Scaramouche huffs quietly. “Unfortunately, hah.” 

 

Galileo laughs behind her.


	2. Chapter 2

“Welcome to the Library!” Pop's voice is swallowed up by a vast chamber with gold borders. The small glass doorway now closing shut behind them was clearly out of place when compared to the palace it guarded.

 

Walls of leather-bound paper lined the walls. According to Pop and a handful of Scaramouche's memories in a place that eerily looked like this, these were books- magazines except there were usually more letters than words, and you can scratch your nails against the paper without wanting to scream.

 

Pop led them through endless halls of books waiting to be opened. Scaramouche's fingers ached to hold them and scour all the knowledge they held. Maybe she can figure out some more fun stuff to do with those micro transceivers she “stole” to add to her collection.

 

Pop stopped when they reached the end of the hallway. This bookshelf was shorter than the rest, and the book covers were thinner and carried a much more vibrant array of color. He approached a lit torch that hung next to the shelf, grabbed it, and pulled it down. The flame continued to flutter around its source as the sound of grinding stone thundered through their senses and the bookshelf turned around. Another hallway stood in its place.

 

“Secret passageway activated by a torch.” He chuckled. “Quite literally the oldest trick in the book.”

 

The next hallway had more strange yet familiar objects scattered near the books on the shelves. There were cartridges with still photos of people's faces, small batteries littering the tables.

 

“This is my lair.” Pop finds a soft, red couch and plops down with a muffled thud.

 

They stared at him silently.

 

He scoffed and muttered something unintelligible before rising to rummage through an unruly stack of CD cartridges.

 

Galileo crossed his arms. “Pop, how did you find these prophecies in the first place?”

 

The old man replied without turning back, his hands furiously tossing any unwanted cartridge away. “Well, I started listening to these albums over here. Got me hooked. There's a billion copies of the same album, can you imagine that? Anyways, I found another copy of this Queen thing, and when I listened to it again-” His voice dropped dramatically, “- There was something different.”

 

Galileo opened his mouth, but Scaramouche cut in with a gentle swipe at his chest, “It would be really great if you just told us right now. We seriously don't need dramatic pauses.”

 

“Agh, alright.” Pop scratched the back of his neck. “There were little bits of pieces of, uh, static throughout songs. Too brief for a wandering mind to easily notice. I slowed the recording down and found the phrases in each bit.”

 

Scaramouche stared at the unruly piles of albums littered around Pop's feet. Listening to the same songs over and over again just to find, what, twenty words that probably just spelled out the recipe for a crappy sandwich?

 

The exact thoughts nearly tumbled out of her tongue when Galileo decided it was apparently _his_ turn to interrupt. “Alright, then. Let's get started.”

 

He turned to her with that trademark lopsided smile, “Wanna dance to the good old days, Scara?”

 

She rolled her eyes and took his open palm, allowing the joy from her fluttering heart to mark a smile on her lips. “Fine.”

\---

Five hours of dancing and hopping on the couch- a beanie bag, as Pop insisted. Five hours of the same rhythm, but nothing happened. Well, they did sing their hearts out to the songs of the past and cried from the joy and adrenaline pumping through their veins, but that, unfortunately, was only part of why they came here.

 

Scaramouche fell down into the beanie bag until her form molded into the material like cookie. “Ugh. How are we ever going to find those messages? Who had the nerve to do all this?”

 

Pop cocked his head to the side and stared at her pointedly. “You?”

 

She glared, turned around, and buried her face in the bag. Pop gazed at Galileo with confusion arching his eyebrows. He just sent a simple dismissive wave.

 

“What if we just listened more closely and did less dancing?” He suggested.

 

“That would've broken my heart, hiding a secret message or not.”

 

“Huh.” He looked down and rested a hand on his chin in contemplation. “Then, maybe, you all hid it in specific songs that would make sense? Wh-What songs did they write?”

 

She lifted her face from the shape it pushed into. “Well, for starters, our drummer did that song- Uh, you know that song.”

 

Galileo narrowed his eyes. “What so- Oh.”

 

His eyes widened. They sat in silence for a while. For some odd reason, Scaramouche had an innate anger towards that song. It was hard to pinpoint a specific moment that sparked this hatred, but, she found no reason to like it either. After a moment passed, Scaramouche sighed. “Pop, can you play that car song? Also, if we actually do find the message in that, I'd like a garbage bin ready for me to puke on.”

 

“Message received and understood!” Pop replied cheerfully. He adjusted the radio before disappearing into another room to fulfill that second request.

 

The telltale drums rolled in as waves of embarrassment and fondness crashed into the couple through every beat. Unfortunately, the beats never seemed to end.

 

Once the song came to an end, Galileo turned to Scaramouche. “So, why did we agree to put this song on any album at all?”

 

She stared off into the distance. “Good question. I don't know.”

 

And then-

 

“Wait.” She stood up straight and held a hand up. “Can you rewind that?”

 

Galileo did so. He paused, jammed a finger on the pause button, and, with wide eyes, exchanged looks with her. “That's it!”

 

Hidden within the revving of engines were small unintelligible beeps. Too brief and too chaotic for one to narrow down into a single note.

 

It was static.

 

“Pop! We found ‘em!” Galileo yelled as laughter burst from his throat. As one hand held the radio steady, the other gently pressed on the rewind button. They came upon that first beep, which was now stretched into three words:

 

_“Find us when-”_

 

Galileo moved on to the next moment of static. All three paused as even the static of this very room started to whine in their ears. This was it. The answer to that nagging question in the back of their heads. Two words.

 

_“-we play.”_

 

They pause, halfly for the words to sink in, yet also to wallow in a deeper pool of confusion.

 

“Why, that is the most direct prophecy I have ever heard!” Pop was the first to break the silence as he gawked at the radio in wonder.

 

Scaramouche, on the other hand, turned hers towards the garbage bin at her feet. It was difficult to identify the owner of the voice. Although it was clear as day thanks to the decreased speed, the voice was too muffled and muddied for any distinguishing traits to resurface.

 

“When we play.” Galileo repeated the words, slowly rolling them off of his tongue as if to find a different dialect laced underneath. He only stared at the wall in defeat. “What does he mean by that? We've listened to these songs so many times but this is the only time we've found a static. That can't be it.”

 

Scaramouche's mind returned to the steady stream of memories headed her way. She jumped from one gig to another, fighting the tide until she could pinpoint the moment that opened this can of not-quite worms.

 

She stopped. She found it. The rhythmic claps and stomps that reverberated from a phantom crowd in a wide field. Her hand brushing against the guitar and sending a wave of notes in all directions. They drew the missing images of that crowd back into her mind and sealed it as memory. They sent her careening into a past with three people (and one of them now standing next to her) full of joy and all things great. That was it.

 

“Maybe it's not the albums.” She gestured towards the scattered cartridges. “Maybe it's just like how I got the Red Special. We need them to play _their_ instruments so their memories can return.”

 

Galileo's eyes brightened up. “Th-That's it, Scara! We can hold, hmm, some kind of audition or tribute concert, and we talk to the people who show up, see how they react to the instruments. We can find them there!”

 

She nodded. “Yes, exactly!” Her gaze fell on the wide-open bin. She stared at it for a moment, then looked up again. She didn't feel like throwing up, actually. In the corner of her eye, Pop's shoulders sagged.

\---

“Tribute Extravaganza!” the bright pink poster read. “Come sign up to perform the iconic songs of the past!”

 

They were back at the front gate of Wembley. This time, they carried hefty stacks of posters for the tribute concert. There really wasn't an office for handling concert affairs, so they took the initiative and stuck posters to the walls. Fun.

 

Scaramouche stared at the last poster her hands could push against for the day. She muttered, “Hey, Gazz.”

 

“Hmm?” He looked up from cutting the edges of posters, a pencil tucked behind his ear for measuring.

 

“Do you know what to do if the people with the souls of our bandmates don't want to accept their memories?”

 

“Don't see any reason why they'd do that.”

 

“But what if they do?” She asked pointedly. She was desperate for an answer, especially since it took her several days to arrive at hers.

 

“I guess we'll have to…” He paused, looked down. “Accept it. That was us back then, Scara. We're totally different now. Even if the two of us don't mind looking back, the other two might just want to focus on the now.”

 

“Right,” She nodded, giving the poster one last gaze of trepidation. “Accept it.”

**Author's Note:**

> I honestly don't know what I'm doing. Takes place post-ending of the musical. I wanted to explore that minor reincarnation plot point so here we are.


End file.
